Dreams Reflect
by I HEART JATAE
Summary: Oliver's dream is a little different than usual... George/Oliver slash. Mild sex, language, et cetera.


Author's Notes: Err, this fic is really wierd and possibly difficult to understand for a number of reasons. First of all, i had just woken up. Secondly, i had just woken up after taking numerous over-the-counter drugs in a desperate attempt to get high. And third, because i got bored of my usual style and decided to write something a little more artsy and/or pornographic. This fic is inspired by/dedicated to my buddy Danielle. Because she had a dream in which the two of us had hot lesbian sex, and now she's bisexual. Though, knowing her, it's prolly just a phase. ^_~ I own nothing owned by other people. 

* 

It was a well-known fact that Fred and George liked both boys and girls. They made sure of that. 

When they'd discovered it, the first person they'd gone to was eachother. Of course. Neither knew which one figured it out first, and if they did, neither would say. But then they went and talked to Professor Dumbledore, of all people, because. Because they trusted him. And he was a wise, mysterious man who would understand, somehow. Then to Ron, because he was their brother, and still at school, even if he couldn't understand how one could think about both sexes in almost the same way. Then to Ginny, because she was family, and girls understand that sort of thing. 

It only took a month or so for them to be open about it with the entire school. 

So they flirted, playfully and openly. They winked at the Gryffindor Chasers whilst using cheesy pick-up lines on Harry. They made Hermione giggle when they slapped Malfor on the rear. They made lewd gestures at anyone who wasn't looking. And the entire school loved them for it, because they all knew it was just for fun. 

So it was alright. It was accepted. Just as it was accepted that Draco would become a Deatheater, or that Harry was allowed to get away with certain things, or that Neville was a bull in a china closet. Part of their character. Almost part of the background, though they insisted on it remaining foreward. 

Quidditch would not have been a problem if they had been able to focus. On the game. If they had not been making cat calls at Alicia, or chasing around a giggling Harry, or whistling and leering at Oliver's bum whenever he flew within fifty feet. 

"Will you two please shut up?!" Oliver barked, cheeks flushed from wind and sweat and embarassment. "We'll never beat Slytherin if you keep being all... all... gay!" 

"Half-gay, thank you!" one of them chirped. Oliver wished they'd cut their hair different, or something, so he could really tell them apart. He just scowled. 

"Aw, c'mon, pooky!" the other one sang, circling on his broom. The rest of the team continued to snigger. "That face isn't at all becoming of you...!" 

Oliver gave up. Actually gave up. Oliver Wood, Quidditch Freak, Team Captain, and resident obsessive-compulsive trainer, actually gave up. "Practice off," he yelled, feeling it in his knees when he touched down. 

* 

_ And he's there. On me. Around me. I can smell him, not cologne or any of that, but just him. Can you smell freckles? Spicy, and sour and sweaty, but perfect. So perfect. My hands, rough, and I wonder if they really belong there. His skin is so soft, I'll only ruin it. Ruin it all. I can't. I pull away. _

But he pulls me back. He wants me there. I would try to remember, but remembering takes thought and time, two formalities we can't frolic about with right now. Our mouths are latched together, sucking, licking, oh god he's sucking on my tongue, who ever thought it could feel this good? 

My rough hands smooth lower, and move until I'm rubbing at him through his trousers. No shirt. He makes a noise, a short sort of grunt-sigh. Then again. Eyes closed. Not mine. I keep going. He's beathing against my neck, and I'm making him feel good, he likes it, he likes **me**... 

But his hips are moving now and oh Jesus don't stop, please don't ever stop. No. That's too good. I think I could love you. I think I could always love you. My hands are gone, no not gone, on his shoulders, and his wide fingers pull and snap and rip until finally, yes, just skin on skin. 

And he keeps moving. All the rubbing and licking and wet wet hot no yes please don't stop don't never ever please stop. God. 

He does. Stop. I almost cry. Please. But he finds it and yes, no he's just keeping me safe, and the thin piece of rubber almost makes me laugh because I'm so happy. That it wasn't over. That it's just starting. 

He rolls on, into me, and yes yes no ow wait. He stops. I stop. The whole fucking world stops. And it's all there, just in his eyes, and yes it's George. So I kiss him, and he keeps going and 

fuck 

what was that 

oh god 

do it again 

please 

fucking PLEASE 

oh Jesus, Merlin, fucking anything, God what IS that? 

It's happening, over and over, dry ice on my spine and cold fire in my blood and George, George everywhere, anywhere, anything about me is just George. Just now. Just here. Because this will stop, yes, but his hands and freckles and smiles and eyes never will. 

Stop. 

* 

Oliver sat bolt upright in bed. He was sweating. And his sheets were wet, wetter than they should be from just sweat... Dammit. He didn't think as he reached for his wand, or as he whispered a cleaning spell, but he did when he put his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. Wow. It had never been like that before. Who was it this time? Cho? Or the Patil girls? Or 

oh fuck 

Oliver's eyes shot open. No. Wait. That couldn't be right. 

George? 

A fucking wet dream about George? 

And HE was the fucking bitch?! 

No! 

Oliver sat up again, angry. Confused. Tired. Horny. What the hell? Why had this happened? He didn't even like boys! He-- well... No! He didn't! It wasn't right. Well, no, it wasn't not RIGHT, it just wasn't right for him. Because he was Quidditch Captain. He was Mister Macho. Whoever heard of a queer Quidditch player, anyhow? 

"Half-queer," some part of his brain quipped. 

"Shut up," he told it, scowling. 

* 

The sun on the pitch was perfect for practice. Too bad they'd gotten up before sunrise. Oliver stood in the middle of the grass and watched the team laugh their way to the locker room. 

"Hey, um. George." He knew it was George. He knew the hands, and freckles and smiles and eyes. Fucking dream. 

"Yeah?" His teeth leaned a little more to the right, and his eyes squinted a little more when he grinned, and the only reason he bit his nails was so people couldn't use it to tell the difference between them. But there was a difference. There was. 

"Err, I had this... thing last night. This dream." 

"Yeah, it's a pretty common occurance while we sleep, Oliver." 

"But no, it had... you." 

There was quiet. George smirked cockily (Oliver decided to ignore the pun) and raised his left eyebrow. Fred always raised his right. 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah." Oliver looked down. Rubbed the back of his neck. He thought he must be blushing, but he hadn't actually blushed in years. 

"And, ah, what you do?" Fred stepped a little closer. Spicy, and sour and sweaty. But perfect. 

"Um, stuff." Oliver was stammering. This couldn't be happening. They were mates-- no friends. FRIENDS. And he couldn't do this with a friend, not a boy friend-- MALE friend. 

"And what did I do?" 

But there would always be Fred, and Harry and Percy for male friends. George was there for him, as a mate, or a boy friend, or a boyfriend. Or to dream into life, because dreams reflect desire. And wishes. That can come true. 

Oliver looked up. George had to know. He'd always known. It was that whole fucking "gay vibe" thing that non-straight people get. 

"Me." 

George tasted just the way the dream had. 

* 

A/N: Yeah, you know you wanna review that. 


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